DWIM
by Croik
Summary: Finch uses The Machine to spy on Reese and Zoe.  Voyeurism kink.


_Person of Interest_, its characters and settings, do not belong to me and are being used here without permission but for no profit. This fic is rated NC-17 for sexual content and voyeurism. Pairings: Reese/Zoe, Finch/Reese, hinted past Finch/Ingram.

**DWIM**  
>Oneshot<p>

* * *

><p>"I'm taking the night off, Finch."<p>

Finch glanced to his computer screen. It was an involuntary habit, and a useless one, because it wasn't as though Reese was on it. Watching the CONNECTION STATUS: LIVE window blink in one corner of the monitor didn't technically aid their communication any more than if he were looking somewhere else. "Is something the matter?"

"No. I'm just overdue, don't you think?"

"I _suppose_," said Finch, drawing the word out. He checked his inbox and, finding it clear, couldn't think of any reason to tell Reese no. "But keep your phone on, just in case."

Reese made a quiet, uncomfortable noise at the back of this throat. "Actually, I'd rather not."

"Excuse me?"

"A night off means _a night off_," Reese said, with more irritation than Finch cared for. "I'll check in bright and early, I promise."

Finch wanted to say no, that he wouldn't call unless it was an emergency so there was no need to turn the phone off, that morning could be too late if a number came in; but he didn't get the chance to say anything, because then there was a rustling on the other end of the line, and a new voice came on.

"Don't worry, Harold," said a woman. "I'll keep an eye on him for you."

Finch tensed, and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. "Ms. Morgan." He shifted in his chair. "I see. You're collecting your fee."

"She can't hear you," said Reese. "But I don't think she'd care for your tone, if she could."

Tone, indeed. Finch switched windows to show the GPS tracker on Reese's phone, which put him downtown. He didn't need to have a camera feed to imagine the pursed look Reese was likely wearing. "Are you sure everything's all right? You sound..."

"Good night, Harold."

Both windows froze. CONNECTION LOST.

"...Irritable." Finch sighed and closed the windows, knowing they would immediately reopen as soon as Reese's phone appeared on the grid again. Their parting words had become uncharacteristically strained of late, and though he was very clear on the cause, he hadn't yet devised a plan to address it. There were prices he paid for his secrecy, every day. Reese's bruised confidence in him would have to be one of them, for the time being.

At least he was bound to be in a better mood come morning, from the looks of things.

Finch grumbled to himself. He checked his inbox again, almost hoping to find a number so that he would have an excuse to track Reese down, but there was nothing. Childish or no, he felt something tighten in his chest at the thought of Reese and Ms. Morgan sharing their drinks, their playful banter, their low-lidded gazes. Both of them willing, capable. Both of them eager and deserving.

For the next half hour, Finch kept busy in the library. He distracted himself in whatever ways he could think of, tidying up in the places he could easily get to, changing all his passwords yet again. It was nearing ten o'clock but he wasn't interested in going home - Murphy's Law dictated that a crisis was sure to strike the one night he didn't have John Reese at his beck and call. So he stayed, shuffling about with unwarranted, nervous energy, until on his way back from a bathroom break he noticed a case against the hallway wall.

Finch was not a great stooper, but he recognized the crate and was suddenly eager for its contents. Inside were three bottles of red wine. He didn't remember when it had gotten there, only that it had seemed a good idea; there were times his sore back required medication of a kind that wouldn't leave him light-headed and sleepy, and a few sips of wine could often do the trick. His pain that night wasn't egregious, but it was _his_ night off, too, and he argued himself into agreeing that a drink wouldn't be amiss.

Half an hour after that Finch was in his chair again, sipping wine lazily out of an inelegant coffee mug. He checked his inbox again and then did a search for Reese's phone. Neither turned up results. Though not as restless as he had been earlier, his curiosity churned and buzzed until he couldn't help but call up a map of downtown, pinpointing exactly where Reese had been when his phone disconnected.

"If you're even still there by now," he wondered aloud, tapping his fingers against the desk. "And not..._negotiating_ somewhere..." He rubbed his eyes and then took another drink.

He was lonely. It wasn't something that happened particularly often, as he had always found great comfort in his solitude, but some nights were strange. Some nights he caught a fever (otherwise known as red wine) that reminded him too well of the many losses he'd suffered, and his inability to repair them. He remembered what it like to fall into a squeaky sofa and huddle, protected and maybe adored by a sturdy arm around his shoulders. Once upon a time he could make someone laugh, could..._negotiate_.

Some nights he was a fool. Some nights, he made the stupid mistake of calling up a login window and typing in five different alpha-numeric passwords.

A window popped up. ADDITIONAL IDENTIFICATION REQUIRED.

Finch stared long enough to realize the gravity of the mistake he was making and then with a deep breath switched on his webcam and microphone. "It's me," he said, his voice rough in the empty room.

Windows opened, measuring his audio input and reflecting his own haggard face back at him.

IDENTIFICATION CONFIRMED: ADMINISTRATOR

ACCESS: GRANTED

CURRENT LOCATION: POSITION 6 [CONFIDENTIAL]

STATUS: NEUTRAL

CURRENT THREAT LEVEL: INDETERMINABLE

Finch let his breath out slowly. Goose bumps rippled down his arms and tension threaded between his ribs; he could feel the eyes on him. At least he wasn't alone. "I'm all right," he said gently, as if reassuring a child. His fingertips hovered over the keyboard. "System status?"

SYSTEM STATUS: SECURE

POSSIBLE THREATS DETECTED: 4

THREATS REQUIRING ADMINISTRATIVE REVIEW: 0

Finch frowned, but before he could input a new command the readouts scrolled upward and were replaced with a blinking report:

LAST RECORDED ADMINISTRATOR LOGIN: AUG 2 2011 18:23:52

DURATION: 171 DAYS 3 HOURS 24 MINUTES 48 SECONDS

"I know." Finch started to fidget, but when he saw his image on the monitor shift with him, he tried to remain settled. "I'm sorry," he said awkwardly. "But I need your help."

The window cleared.

INPUT QUERY

"Locate..." The words lodged in Finch's throat. He tried to gulp them down, a horrible, bitter guilt exciting the bile in his stomach, and finally managed to get them out. "Locate asset John Reese."

He was only checking in, he told himself. Just so that he would know where to go, if something happened. He kept his eyes on the screen, expecting to see a flurry of searches and data processing, but as soon as he finished uttering the words a window popped up: grainy black and white security camera footage from inside a bar. Two boxes highlighted a pair sitting together, one yellow, one white. Their shoulders were touching, and as Finch watched, Reese smothered a grin under his hand.

"Is there audio?" Finch asked, his eyes locked on the dim image of Reese's flashing teeth.

Reese's phone number appeared on the screen, followed by Morgan's, but both phones were off. Finch sighed in disappointment, but then the patrons on either side of the pair lit up with white boxes, and within seconds Finch was staring at their facial recognition data, their cell phone history, and two audio windows aligned.

"You're right," said Reese, his voice scratchy and muddled through the stranger's cell phone. "You have no idea how right you are." Finch leaned forward, hoping for context to interpret the remark.

"So what are you afraid of?" said Morgan. She turned her lips closer to Reese's ear, and Finch couldn't make out what she said next.

Whatever it was, Reese straightened in his chair. "That doesn't seem like you," he said. "I'm flattered."

"Don't be." Morgan pushed back from the bar. "It's already on the market."

Reese paid for their drinks with cash and then helped Morgan into her coat. His long fingers slipped beneath her hair, freeing it from her collar, and Finch felt heat along the back of his neck. It reminded him of times in years past - of the gentle friction of his necktie against his stiff dress shirt as it was tugged loose by welcome fingers.

Reese and Morgan moved out of the range of the phones, as did their conversation. The security camera tracked them to the door, and once they were outside the view switched to a street camera. Reese hailed them a cab, and judging by their conversation and the direction the cab drove off in, there was only one likely destination.

They were going to Morgan's townhouse. Finch's brain immediately went to work, trying to remember if Morgan had any electronics at her home that could be exploited to further his surveillance. By the time the cab had stopped at its first traffic light his conscience was catching up. "What am I doing?" he said, pushing has glasses back so he could rub his face. Reese was already on edge and here he was, spying on him in what was likely to become an intimate moment. He wiped sweat from his palms and looked to the computer again - it was still tracing Reese's cab, but up in the corner a new window had appeared, calculating likely destinations. Without having been asked it zeroed in on Mogan's residence and called up the security camera view from the street outside, then went on searching for known connections inside.

"I taught you too well," Finch mumbled. He stared in almost helpless admiration as his creation did its work, finding and cracking Morgan's private home network with ease. She didn't have a home phone, but she did have a laptop in sleep mode. Its protections were overwhelmed and a fresh audio window opened.

INTERIOR VIDEO NOT AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME it reported.

Enablers. All his life Finch had receded from society, but every time there was at least one: one bad decision, one unlikely friend, one open window. He could almost hear Nathan's voice in his ear, like so many times when they were young, whispering, _Don't worry so much, Harry. No one will know._ He could see Nathan's hand reaching over the keyboard to turn up the volume. _Live a little._

The cab pulled up, and Reese and Morgan slipped gracefully out. Morgan discreetly readjusted her jacket while Reese paid the driver. They walked to the door together, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary until she took Reese's hand to lead him inside. Reese glanced back once, maybe hesitating, before closing the door behind them.

Now was the time to stop. Finch had his fingers poised over the keys, had the words on his lips. He wanted to shut everything down and go home and maybe even sleep. But then the audio window sparked to life - just a rustle as Reese and Morgan shed their coats in another room - and his heart began to pound. He could hear a whisper of their voices, maybe even laughter.

_You already know everything about him,_ Nathan's voice taunted in his ear. _He knows that. So what does it matter?_ _Who's gonna know?_

They were drawing closer. Finch closed his eyes, remembering the layout from when he had made his own illegal visit. Was the laptop in the bedroom? He swallowed hard as he traced the sound of Morgan's heels, the clatter of them being tossed into a corner, then the soft pad of her bare feet. There was a quiet rustle, Morgan's chuckle, a low, familiar murmur that sent a flush of heat into Finch's cheeks.

Finch opened his eyes again. There was nothing to see; only the jerky line of the audio box, hopping erratically with every slight, unintelligible sound from the surveyed couple. He watched it dip and dance, trying to apply his imagination to every tick: the sharp peaks marked each quiet smack of Morgan's made up lips. The low quiver was Reese's whisper, ever in Finch's ear, humming down his mangled spine and making it straight and strong again.

The few moments of relative silence were punctuated by laughter - a kind of embarrassed almost-giggle that Finch hadn't known Reese was capable of. It sent the hum lower, into the pit of Finch's stomach.

"Sorry," said Reese breathlessly. "It's been a while."

"Been a while," Finch repeated, his voice even more frail. "How long..."

"Shh," soothed Morgan. Fabric slumped to the floor in piles. "It's okay."

Footage was flashing across the screen. Finch didn't pay it any notice at first; when he turned up the volume he could hear the rush of air through Reese's lips - a gasp, maybe, or an attempt to speak smothered by rich lips. He was leaning forward, trying to catch some other errant sound, when a window suddenly expanded to cover half the screen, blinking:

JAN 4 2009 2:57:02

LOCATION: 186 00 PRAGUE 8 CZECH REPUBLIC

MISSION: N/A

PERSONNEL: REESE, JOHN

OBJECTIVE: N/A

captioning a grainy security camera feed. It looked like the back of a gas station, with a short-ended European car parked close to the service entrance. As the seconds ticked by two figures entered the frame, one a woman hiking her skirt up, the other a tall man in a wool coat with a yellow box highlighting his face.

Finch stared. His eyes were wide, his brain uncomprehending. With Reese and Morgan hissing in his ears he watched Reese's black and white ghost stalk toward the limber young Czech woman hopping onto the hood of the car. She spread her legs and Reese slid deftly between them.

"Wait," Finch stuttered, leaning back. "What is this? I didn't - "

FEB 20 2012 22:05:44

QUERY: "HOW LONG"

DURATION: 1142 DAYS 19 HOURS 8 MINUTES 42 SECONDS

His face burned. "But I wasn't really - how do you have this footage?" He reached forward, intending to call up Reese's full file, but then a second window appeared, dated several years earlier, with black-and-white Reese slipping into a motel. Then a third dated some time before that, and -

Bed springs made a quiet complaint, and the rustling of clothing was replaced with a smooth hiss of clean sheets. More quiet laughter, and a sudden intake of breath - definitely a gasp. For a moment the audio went quiet, as if suspended, and Finch's heart nearly stopped with it. His fingers stretched, aching.

"Oh _god_," Morgan panted, all her rough elegance crumbling into even rougher delight. In window one the Czech woman tipped her head back, her hair tickling the hood of the car. "Oh John, you _liar_."

She moaned, and a thin, almost pained reply slipped from Finch's dry lips. He immediately clapped his hand over his mouth in senseless paranoia of being heard. Her voice was rich and uninhibited but it was the pauses that captivated him - his ears strained for rubbing skin, as if he might be able to make out from sound alone what his clever Reese was doing to her. His imagination supplied all manner of scenarios that hardened heat into arousal, curiosity into jealousy. Was it Reese's hands or his lips; was he already inside her? In window three curtains drifted away from a window just enough to make out a yellow-boxed figure slouched in a hotel chair, a head of blond hair dipping into his lap. His fingers tightened against the back of the woman's neck and she arched beneath him, coinciding with another throaty murmur from the speakers.

Finch stretched his shoulders. He felt the pull of stiff tendons around his neck, like a hand pressing into his pins. He couldn't arch like that anymore, but his body was still eager to make the attempt. With a whimper of resignation he slid his hand down the front of his slacks.

He was disgusted with himself. Of all the breaches of trust he had forced Reese to endure he knew this was unpardonable. He could only imagine the fury those blue eyes would fix on him if he knew. His chest tightened with expectation of a wide palm twisting in his vest, shoving him into the closest wall - the bone trembling impact sending tremors through his fragile limbs. He would fold before John Reese as easily as a young woman collapsing in ecstasy across the hood of her car.

"Are you..." Reese started to ask, but Morgan cut him off, "Yes, _God_ yes."

"God, yes," Finch whispered.

He slid into her. Finch couldn't see or hear, but the silence rippled out to him, and he closed his eyes, letting it tingle. With breath held he wrapped his fingers around his aching erection and squeezed, slowly. The pressure eased deep inside his abdomen and his lips parted. _John..._

Reese's voice rumbled from the speakers as if in answer, and Finch groaned aloud, ashamed and exhilarated. The sheets resumed their steady hiss but were accompanied by a much more recognizable squeak of bedsprings. Finch shifted his knees wider and stroked, slow and strong, following the quiet rhythm of the thumping headboard. When he tried to shift his hips in time his back complained fiercely, but he savored the burn, wishing a strong body was shoving his shoulders into a hard mattress.

_That's it, Harry_, Reese whispered in his ear this time, and his grip tightened reflexively. _Use me. Like you always do._

Finch opened his eyes. The three videos had restarted, and Finch watched again, his breath panting, as Reese fucked into a young woman behind a Prague gas station. He watched a hotel door swing closed, not soon enough to keep the camera from noticing a brunette unbuttoning her blouse - especially watched the blonde sliding Reese's knees wider as his hands kneaded into her. But it was the audio window, half shielded by the other displays, which drew Finch's attention most fiercely. Only the lower frequency was visible, and it pulsed in sharp, eager ridges with every pound of the headboard. In light-headed foolishness Finch could see in the gyrating lines a pair of bodies, rising and falling, crashing away from and into each other. It was in the brief, quieter moments that they sealed into one line, one being.

It was those moments that Finch envied most. He worked his fist up and down his straining flesh, desperate to feel a connection to the heartbeat twisting across his screen. He could feel Reese looming over him, his voice a heavy pant in his ear, strong hands at his hips and between his shoulders. Pleasure dipped into agony but he couldn't stop. Sweating and whimpering he teetered at the edge, toes painfully clenched, waiting for them.

Morgan's voice rose first. She cried out, quieter than before as if suspended in awe. Gravity reversed and Finch's entire body grew tight, but it was the murmur beneath it, barely audible to anyone less desperate to hear it, that shook him apart: low, and weak, and almost choking, as if it had been crushed from the lungs of a dying man. It was guilt and grief and relief and _please_, and it was everything Finch heard in himself when climax ravaged him.

Finch crumpled over his keyboard. His shoulders arched and his hand continued to pump until every electric shock of pleasure had run its course, down to the tips of his fingers and toes. For the briefest of moments euphoria alone supported him, saturating his held breath. He listened to Reese and Morgan's heavy breaths be interrupted with sloppy kisses. Then everything caved in.

Agony flooded down the length of his spine. He tried to take a breath and couldn't - his chest was heaving with choked cries of pain. For too many long moments panic overtook him and he clutched at the desk, shaking, unable to regain his composure. Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he imagined how pathetic he must have looked.

By the time he had enough strength to straighten in his chair, a new window had opened.

DIALING: 911 EMERGENCY ASSISTANCE

"No," Finch croaked, and to be sure he jabbed at the keyboard until the screen registered his abort. He wiped his eyes and mouth on his sleeve and searched for something nearby to clean up with. "No, I'm all right. Thank you." When he glanced back to the screen he saw the footage had started over again, and he shuddered. "That's enough. That's...enough." He closed the three surveillance windows but hesitated on the audio.

He could still hear them - soft breath, rustling sheets. He could almost even see them. Then bile burned the back of his throat and he closed that window, too.

The library silenced. Finch blinked into the shadows, bleary and exhausted. When he tried to imagine what Nathan would have said about him then, he couldn't. He couldn't even remember what Nathan's voice sounded like.

"How long has it even been," Finch wondered aloud.

A fresh window opened, cycling back through years of footage, but as soon as it halted on a date Finch scrambled to close it. "No, enough," he said again, his pulse again swift in his ears. He sighed. "Enough." His fingers trembled against the keys. "Thank you. That's enough for tonight."

At first nothing happened, but then the status window scrolled upward.

THREATS REQUIRING ADMINISTRATIVE REVIEW: 1

NAME: REESE, JOHN

SSN: [REDACTED]

DOB: [REDACTED]

POB: [REDACTED]

Files opened one on top of each other all across the screen: classified missions, police reports, psych evaluations. Finch went cold. One after another they added up, until they were joined by surveillance footage. The first glimpse of a gun in Reese's hands drove Finch again to the keyboard. "John Reese is an asset," he said firmly, closing the windows and declaring the threat assessed. "He's not your concern. Understand? I'm logging off."

Finch logged out, returning his screen to its normal desktop. With a grimace and shaking hands he tidied himself up and finished his mug of wine. It wasn't until he had wasted another hour changing his passwords again that he forced himself to shut everything down - without checking the GPS again - and begin the trip home.

He had made a mistake that he couldn't take back; he only prayed he could hide it from Reese along with all the rest.


End file.
